


Aristocrats of the Night

by ShakespeareanMusings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 08:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16950234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareanMusings/pseuds/ShakespeareanMusings
Summary: A glimpse into the lives of nocturnal creatures pulling the strings of the world, hidden away in their own little society and untouched by the ravages of time. Their lives differ from ours not much, only that longevity brings with it a great deal of patience. And mistakes for that matter





	Aristocrats of the Night

_1462..._

_…_

_Sometimes, the world needs a hero._

_A knight clad in shimmering armor, wielding the sword of justice in one hand_ _and the shield of hope in the other, _vanquishing the evil like a holy storm and preserving the holy vows he swore. An unbreakable wall, A figurehead, a beacon of light when a shroud of darkness threatens to erase you to oblivion. A conduct to the people who are lost in a sea of desperation.__

_But..._

_My nephew was not viewed as a hero in the eyes of the world..._

_He was not respected by kings..._

_Or revered by the people..._

_There was no place in Heaven reserved for him..._

_No..._

_He was feared as a monster..._

_A creature of hell, surrounded by corpses and drenched in blood._

_A creature forsaken by God..._

_A Monster feared by Kings..._

_A Demon feared by soldiers..._

_A Man... who was no longer considered a man..._

_And yet, he saved his kingdom from a great peril..._

_So..._

_Did that not make him a hero as well...?_

_It did..._

_Only..._

_Fate refused to entitle him as such..._

_He was not consecrated as a hero..._

_No..._

_Instead..._

_He was condemned as a demon..._

_The man who sold his soul in exchange for the power he needed to protect his family._

_The man who brought fire and blood to his enemies, like the devil’s second coming._

_A man who, in the end, lost everything._

_A son who lost his family..._

_A Prince who lost his crown..._

_A man... who lost his sanity..._

_Is history not fair and impartial? Vestiges telling the stories of mighty kings, gallant knights and great warriors. Of wars fought by many and peace created by a little. Giving us a 'glimpse' of what happened during the days of yore...?_

_History is an amusing, interesting and wholesome aspect, truth be told..._

_Only..._

_Sometimes..._

_I wish they kept the content of certain books... untouched by the opinions of misanthropists. Or by the fidgeting fingers of zealous disciples viewing the writings indicted in books... too blasphemous for their liking._

_Ah, one such story brings back tears to my eyes._

_The story of my nephew._

_Jon Targaryen, Prince of Wallachia._

_Also infamously defamed as..._

_Lord Impaler..._

_The Son of the Devil…_

_...._

_Before Turkey ascended as the glorious empire of the Middle East, it was an infant realm vying for power across Asia Minor, like all the other small kingdoms chipping away at the remnants of the Byzantine Empire. It shone, however, like no other nation and subjugated the surrounding settlements to its will._

_Despite the beauty, Turkey was a nation soaked in one color predominantly._

_The color of blood._

_Wars were often fought between the Ottomans and the Eastern kingdoms. The smaller but still powerful duchies and principalities of Eastern Europe were in an eternal struggle to dam the flooding Ottoman legions. Wallachia, Serbia, Bosnia, Moldavia, proud Slavic kingdoms with ancient traditions and bloodlines going all the way back to the days of Thrace and Ancient Greece. Proud Slavic realms, now turned to nothing more than Turkey’s petty vassals._

_Once in ten years, the Ottoman Emperor would decreed the recruitment of one thousand boys from its newly created Slavic vassals, as he did with all the nations subjugated to his absolute rule. Between the age of eight to sixteen was the most desired, for this age allowed them to be forged and bended perfectly._

_These fledglings were roped against their will and brought back to the Imperial Capital to fight in the numerous wars between the Ottoman Empire and its contestants all across. These young boys were subjected to the most brutal trainings in order to become the ultimate fighters. Whipped, broken, shaped and molded into fervent fighters, the armies of the Ottoman Emperor were feared across the entirety that was Asia Minor and beyond._

_And one man in particular, who was inducted into the Imperial Army from age eight and served almost twenty years, became exceptionally notorious throughout the armies of both the Emperor’s and his enemies._

_Overwhelming, fearless and most of all, resolute, this man sent more enemies to their graves than anyone was comfortable with in ever achieving._

_With a crimson sword in his right hand, a dragon constricting around the hilt, named Blackfyre, and another one in his left, equally as fiery, with the skull of a demon as a pommel, named Dark sister, he reaped his adversaries down as if they were made of grass._

_Blackfyre, the Dragon Tooth, spewer of fire, said to grant its wielder the unshakable power of dragon's fire._

_Dark Sister, the Demon Nail, drinker of blood, said to grant its wielder the ability to drink the blood of his fallen enemies and recuperate from the life essence flowing through every man. The names of these two weapons were whispered into the ears of the enemies whenever they saw the swords shine in the bloody rays of the sun._

_This man was the once the boy-prince Jon I Targaryen. A prince in his own right a live time ago, the son of the Wallachian ruler. My beloved nephew. However, noble blood did nothing to save him from an imperial decree._ _Jon did not hold his Father, my fair brother Rhaegar, responsible for acquiescing, crying as he did though for be separated from his family; the ambition of a man with a view for world domination is as unshakable as it is narrow and frivolous. And beloved Jon was a creature of duty. The boy appeased his liege, willingly, despite our fervent protests. There wasn’t much he could have done anyway. Deny his Emperor was tantamount to disgracing him. And that would entail certain death. To all of his family._

_And so, Jon’ endeavor began when _the boy was inducted into the army.__

_Here, he met Prince Mehmet Osmanoglu, the heir to the Ottoman Empire._

_Mehmet... was a tragic boy. According to the stories he lost his mother to illness and his father to madness. The Turkish Emperor did not even consider spending time with his eldest child, eternally wandering through the maze that was his distorted idea of absolute power._

_Mehmet grew up with only the walls to talk to, with only the sheets of his bed to keep him warm and with only a small white bird to love. The stories told me how the small white bird, despite his freedom, always made sure to visit Mehmet during the nights, before the moon fully replaced the sun. Jon never understood why the Turkish Crown Prince would share these stories with him, during the freezing nights of sleep and scalding days when they marched, fought and conquered. He never understood it. Mehmet’s apathy to the world was bare for all to see, yet these stories sounded so… intimate to share._

_The secrets the young Prince shared, the happy and the heart-wrenching stories, all of them were heard by the snow-colored bird, he once whispered quietly to Jon. Mehmet was content, despite the lack of actual love, he was content that time. He was satisfied with the ways of life. If he had his small white friend, all would be well._

_Until his only friend too no longer came by to visit his lonesome palace._

_Jon spoke how the young boy confessed that he waited for his friend in that same dead voice, sitting on the floor with and gazing at the window, waiting and waiting for his white friend to show._

_Days turned into weeks._

_And weeks into months._

_Only for them to turn immemorial._

_When that small white bird disappeared, despite in itself a trivial matter for a prince such as Mehmet, he yet again found his heart filled with an extreme loneliness. The stories say his young heart rotted with contempt at the world. A darkness began festering inside him, a grotesque hatred and malevolence to all that resembled love._

_His faithful meeting with Jon changed the course of his future._

_Two young children met._

_Two sons, one of imperial blood, the other of princely blood, forced by their Emperor to fight and die for the glory of the Ottoman Empire. One far away from home, lost in the apathy of his own iced heart to even care about a home to return to while the other was desperate to come back, being pressured by the crushing burden of a ruthless sovereign’s expectations and determined to win his lord’s favor and return home into the arms of family._

_Going through the years, they fought side by side, ate side by side, slept side by side and conquered side by side. But they were polar opposites._

_Mehmet was cunning, ruthless and a brilliant strategist, viewing and coordinating the legions positioned on the map as though they were pieces on a chessboard. The boy provided the most ingenious ways of crushing his enemies, putting the ‘crude and pathetic tricks’ of his older superiors to shame._

_Jon, on the other hand, was a master tactician and a peerless swordsman. To achieve the main goal of Mehmet's strategy, the young prince conjured the most original and daring tactics. He was viewed as reckless, dangerous and too incalculable. But he was not deterred by the limits of his peers, or his superiors. The prince reached the goal of his generals always, which excused anything else he'd do to come out as the victor. The war prince was efficient, and merciless in battle, slaughtering his enemies as though they were cattle. Prince Jon was the of ‘Sword of the Turks’._

_Two decades passed before the Great Era of Conquest ended, and Turkey forced many of its adversaries to their knees. With the subjugations of many domains came peace. A fragile peace, many would soon lament._

_Emperor Murat II died from sickness. His physicians pointed towards numerous causes, but many agreed his deteriorated state of mind contributed much to his ailment. His lethargic, ruthless and war-thirsty son would succeed him as Emperor Mehmet I Osmanoglu. And with his ascension to the Ottoman throne, a reign of blood would ensue._

_Jon returned to us after twenty years of faithful service. He left as a mere boy greener than grass, with the eyes of an innocent scared child unsure of his future. He returned to us a man, hardened and scarred by the atrocities of war. His once vivid eyes as beautiful as the storms blinked in dullness, always distant and absentminded, never fully aware of anything around him. He came back a skittish man, on edge and jaws clenched tight. The day he returned to us, I wept an endless stream of tears, overjoyed as we embraced and reunited, and heartbroken as his eyes told me hundreds of horrors he witnessed._

_Even more so when he whispered to me the plans of our ruler._

_“Mehmet will burn our kingdom to the ground… Take our family, dear aunt, and flee. The Ottoman Emperor will not be satisfied by a mere thousand boys anymore... And I will no longer kowtow to such a tyrant.”_

_By Imperial Decree, no longer did the Empire demand a thousand boys._

_It demanded all boys and girls to serve the Empire._

_In every way seen fit._

_Rhaegar, my beloved brother, never forgave himself for sending his son to do the bidding of the Ottomans. Two years after Jon left, Rhaegar Targaryen passed away, beset by grief and regret, and our kingdom was left in disarray. When Jon finally returned, he was crowned as the next Wallachian Prince to rule our people and, seemingly doomed as another Prince to kowtow before a ruthless tyrant._

_Instead, he brought rebellion and freedom._

_With his coronation came the Uprising against the tyranny of Turkey._

_With the uprising came the spark of our society._

_The birth… of the Vampyre Society._

_~Princess Daenerys; Chronicles of the Vampyre Society~_

 

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

_Transylvania…_

_2002…_

_June 17 th _

_…_

 

The column of black cars drove minutely across the ridges of the Transdanubian mountains of Romania. Their pace was precise, slow and careful as the road before them spelled much treachery, something the driver informed them about in zealous detail. Sansa caught her brothers looking out of the window more often than she was comfortable, catching Robb’s intrigued face and Bran’s and Rickon’s excited snickers while she herself would never dare to glance outside, mindful not to turn into a frightened frenzy.

Heights were never her thing, and Sansa was so close in begging Father to take the train straight to Romania, if it wasn’t for her sister that would probably keep calling her a nance at every opportunity. Arya was uncharacteristically silent as the grave this time, one leg draped over the other showing her glinting black heels and the toned muscles of her calves and upper legs, arms crossed over the grey silken strapless dress she was forced to clad herself. She kept staring out of the window towards the dark clouds. Arya was no less thrilled as Rickon and Brandon whenever she’d catch a particularly beautiful sight of the valleys up ahead, but Sansa reckoned she was still cross at getting all dolled up to be presented before the other noble families, decorated with necklaces, bracelets, rings and earrings she always found too itchy to wear most of the time. If only Arya took stock of her boorish behaviour sometimes and reined in that temper of hers, she would have made every head turn at feasts, Sansa was sure.

Transylvania was as beautiful as she remembered, and just as dangerous. Sprouted from the valleys were great pinewood forests, a borderless sea of green and brown needles. The jagged peaks of the mountains were dipped in crystal whites like a crown of snow, a breath-taking sight for a romantic such as Sansa. The clouds were grey and heavy, looking like a sag full of water ready to burst. For a brief moment, she was reminded of home, of Stockholm, of the Swedish glaciers and the woodsy scents Scandinavia was so famous for. It served as a balm to her growing desire for home, a nagging feeling Sansa tried shoving to the side and making room for the excitement that was attending the Targaryen Ball.

Father and Mother were driving in the next Mercedes in front of them leading the column towards the Red Keep. Lord Luwin was given custody of Castle Winterfell until they all returned from their homage to Princess Daenerys.  

“Can you stop fumbling? Or do you want us to tumble down the ravine and crash head first into the woods?” Sansa hissed at her little brothers after they started frolicking a tad bit too energetically like two wolf runts.

“Not our fault that you’re a scaredy cat for heights, Sans! Besides, we’re almost there! Look! That castle over there glowing with pretty lights has to be the Red Keep!”

All the highborn vampyres across the world would come and attend the decennial gala ball hosted by the Lady Regnant, in honour of King Jon’ victory over the Turks exactly five-hundred years ago. Sansa felt her blood sing with excitement of yet again coming to Romania and appear at the most anticipated event of their society. Ten years ago, Sansa was awestruck and fell wildly in love with the splendour and brilliance of this societal gathering. She was a girl of ten, and her entire world lit up as the people danced and sang at the Targaryen Ball. She even fell for the dashing young heir of the French Elder, Harrold Arryn. A golden prince, with his winning smile, dimpled-cheeks and boyish charms. Sansa hoped against all odds that she could see him again at the gala. All of it determined Sansa to become the greatest socialite of their society.

Every ten years, the most noble of vampyre aristocrats would come and dance to sweetly composed music, make toasts to the present ladies, compliment their fairness and share ambitions and visions. Every single name worth a penny would be there; the Baratheons, the Martels, the Tyrells, the Lannisters, the Arryns, all the Great Families representing something worthwhile.

The dress-code for the Targaryen Ball was black-tie; formal wear like tailored suits and dresses of the most expensive quality would be flaunted around tonight at the Red Keep. It was Sansa’s favourite genre of clothes. Sansa poured every effort in making the dress she was wearing tonight at the gala. Mother took it upon herself to dress her daughters to the best money could buy, but Sansa was a lover for embroidery and shouldered the responsibility herself of knitting together a dress proper for a young woman of her echelon.

Made of the finest Chinese silks, Sansa put together a masterpiece of clothing. Like Arya, Sansa opted to wear a strapless satin gown, keeping the back bare and showing the ivory skin of her shoulders and neck. Hers had a cut made in the billowing skirt showing off a daring amount of leg. Her dress was a mixture of ruby and obsidian colours accentuating her own glossy copper hair to a tee, the bodice decorated with sparkling sequins.

It took her the better part of a week to sew together a dress such as this one, and the end result left her supremely satisfied. She came dressed to impress after all. To add a bit more sophistication to her touch, Sansa knitted a pair of black silky evening gloves to add to her pristine appearance.

Three months ago Sansa had passed the twentieth milestone in her age. Compared to her parents, the Lord and Lady Stark, both well in their hundreds, she was still considered a child, a babe even, by Vampyre standards. Robb just turned fifty, yet at a mere glance you would think of him around the same age as herself. The age gap between herself and Arya was far less, mere two years. Rickon and Bran were the youngest of their brood. Sansa didn’t understand why, but her parents decided to broaden their family quite rapidly in the span of twenty years. Robb enjoyed for more than thirty years the coddling of Mother and the scolding of Father alone, but it seemed Mother and Father grew a little more amicable to the idea of having a bigger family eventually. 

The Lady Regnant herself was over five hundred years old, but still deferred as the queen of their society, unmatched in beauty and grace. Even the daughter of Lord Tywin couldn’t hold a handle to Princess Daenerys and Cersei Lannister was complimented as the most radiant woman of Great Britain. Princess Daenerys was everything Sansa wished to become one day.

The ride towards the Red Keep was a long one. From the airport of Cluj-Napoca towards the secluded regions of the Red Keep was a solid five hours. The ancient castle was encroached by depthless forests and insurmountable mountains, a perfect place faraway from prying eyes.

The Targaryens were loath to stand in the middle of attention more so than others. Or rather, the only Targaryen currently walking the earth. As of right now, Princess Daenerys was as the only remaining member of her illustrious dynasty. Little was known about their great King, only his name, his achievements and his sacrifices. He was a creature right out of one of the childhood stories Sansa grew up with. A myth boys would aspire to become and girls swoon at his heroism and bravery. She wouldn’t be ashamed to admit she was once one of those girls.

But Sansa knew better. As the daughter of a Vampyre Elder, who himself a blood relative of the King no less, Sansa was aware of her family’s pre-eminence amongst the Vampyre Society. The Starks of Winterfell were a coveted family by many who were eager to curry favour with the Lady Regnant and tie their dynasty to the House of Targaryen through the matrilineal bloodline of the Absent King. Robb, Bran and Rickon could choose their fill of highborn ladies as they pleased, their blood gave them that prerogative. And Father had to beat off suitors for her and Arya with a stake dipped in silver.

It was why Sansa was so eager to finally present herself as a grown woman at this gala, to show the royalty and elegance of her blood as a descendant of King Jon the Great. To charm and delight the people and present herself as the precedent of how highborn ladies ought to be; irresistible, radiant and sensual.

Sansa felt their speed lessen and dared a look outside the window, taking note how they took a turn and started a gradual descend towards the highlands, finally leaving behind the grating ups and downs of the mountains. When she squinted her bright blue eyes, they fell on the magnificent Targaryen castle up ahead and it made her breath hitch in her throat.

The Red Keep was a beautiful hilltop structure with three towers and one large bell tower atop of the fortified bastion, all of them scratching the clouds above like straight candles. The castle was a fortified eyesore once for the Ottomans during their campaigns to invade Europe. Only thrice in its history did it fell, and after, the Lady Regnant signed a pact of non-aggression in return for save passage across the mountains. None appreciated the effort both parties had to exert in order to gain or keep control over the strategic point.

As they drove closer towards the scarlet walls of the Red Keep, Sansa’s eyes once again feasted on the gorgeous windows she remembered ten years ago, beautiful in their luminance as the stained glasses shone with azure, lilac, teal, saffron and crimson colours depicting the sanctification of Christ, the coronation of Emperor Constantine and the Fall of Rome by the hands of Odoacer. Sansa can still remember the grisailles all across the balustrades and parapets the first time she visited the Red Keep. She fell in love at first sight with the castle of Princess Daenerys and more times than she can count dreamed of one day living in a residence similar in splendour such as the Red Keep.

Their column neared the giant portcullis leading straight towards the courtyard, each side of the gate guarded by snarling dragons. The iron bars parted as they drove further, and Sansa saw already a great fleet of exorbitant cars parked. She counted at least a dozen of Rolls Royces, all emblazoned with the crests of the families they represented. Sansa recognized the gilded lion, the sun pierced  by a spear, the silver trout of her Mother’s family, the golden kraken and the sky-blue falcon enclosed by a white moon. Her stomach did a small flip at that, smiling giddily at the prospect of seeing Harrold again. Further along was the golden rose, Margaery Tyrell’s family she closely remembered, and cars marked by other, less prominent but still notable families, sigils like the Royces with their bronze shield hammered with black studs and bordered with runes, the white sword and falling star of the Daynes and many others. The occasion had called for many of the Vampyre Society to assemble. This year, the Lady Regnant spoke of a special juncture that would happen at the Red Keep, the beginning of a new era she wrote. Sansa felt the curiosity bubble through her veins the first time she heard her lord Father announce to them the invitation of Princess Daenerys this coming summer.    

Their Mercedes grinded to a halt on the smooth tarmac around the courtyard, coming next to their parent’s car. Rickon started to grow restless as he kept bouncing in his seat, which earned him a stern look from Sansa. Bran caught whatever spell tormented Rickon as well as he too started rolling on the balls of his feet impatiently. Robb smoothed down some of the crinkles across his clothes and straightened Bran’s curly russet ringlets with brotherly affection. Arya was tapping the ends of her high heels on the floor, her lack of patience as palpable as her irritation. They were all quite travel-weary, and with good reason. A five hour long drive would take a toll eventually, even on someone as prim and full of decorum like Sansa. She caught herself a handful of times slackening in her demure position, to her slight bashfulness.

The chauffeur stepped outside and opened the door of the car in seamless grace, the perfect example of a gentleman. Robb could learn a thing or two from this man, human as he was.

“Milady, if it pleases, let me help you out of the car.” A white-gloved hand was offered, his tone submissive and deferent, like all servants of their household. He dared not to look up from the ground, his eyes instead transfixed on the tarmac. Ever the prim and proper woman, she accepted the hand and rose to her heels with the grace of a true lady, standing proud and tall in the slight summer breeze gliding down the vale and pulling at the lose locks refusing to be tucked in her elegant pony-tail. Her younger siblings had less of a penchant when it came to upholding propriety as Rickon, Bran and Arya all poured out of the car rather roughly, and Sansa creased her dainty brows at them; some people never learn.  

“Thank you Walden, you may leave now. Park the car nearby and remain at your post. I will have a castle servant send you a plate if dinner is to begin.” Robb’s tone was politely dismissive, ushering the chauffeur away with a flicker of his wrist, who nodded obediently, uttered a small ‘milord’ and got inside the Mercedes and drove off towards a designated place. Mother and Father were already standing at the base of the stone stairway leading up towards the grand entrance of the castle, neatly dressed for the evening; Father wore his grey mantle with white fur trims and their sigil emblazoned on. His mantle flapped like liquid steel over his tailor-made black tuxedo, billowing in the winds every small second. Mother, like Arya and herself, wore a fitting gown made of black silks, more self-deprecating and proper for a married lady of high stature, with a scarf made of fox-fur around her neck and her hair plaited with a jewelled hairnet over it. Despite the time of summer around, the Romanian highlands still had a nib to them that would make the flesh grow cold and hard. Sansa was sure Robb felt glad for wearing a tux, because he looked positively comfortable while it was a struggle for Sansa not to run her hands up and down her lithe body.

“Come along now, my dears. Her Highness the Princess will greet us personally and I will not have her waiting any longer. I do not need to point out the significance of punctuality, now do I children?” Catelyn’s soft-spoken yet commanding tone brought both Rickon and Bran to attention, her little brothers straightening their backs like poised arrows and compliantly walking by their parent’s side.

“Sweet sister, my I have the honour to guide you inside the castle?” Robb offered his arm to Sansa, and she gladly wrapped her own arms around it, giving a pleased smile to her elder brother. The other was offered to Arya, who scoffed derisively at all this pretence.

Sansa’s glare could have melted the moon with their intensity, but then again, so could Arya’s cold and indifferent eyes freeze the sun solid. Robb merely grinned at his youngest sister, not at all affected. “Come on Arya, we cannot have the nobles think you’d be anything less than a proper lady. It’d be a waste of such a fine dress and fair looks. Not to mention Mother will tear you a new one with that grimace on your face.”

She rolled her eyes in the most _unladylike_ way that it made Sansa almost grind her teeth, Arya grudgingly grasping Robb’s arm and smiling a sweetly fake smile full of mock and contempt.

“Only to get that snob of a sister of ours to stop cursing me to the nine hells, dear brother. I’ll pretend to be all ‘batting eye-lashes’ and ‘charming smiles’ tonight. Like I got a choice in all this absurdity.... Ugh, how can people even _walk_ in these heels? I’d rather go barefooted over a carpet of nails than wobbling in these stupid things. It’s a blight for your legs!”

“Speak for yourself Arya. I, for one, love wearing high heels. As do most women. Mother told you time and time again to start getting used to them because you’re ought to learn how to walk around like a proper lady. Like a proper woman even. Life isn’t only tight spandexes and leather boots.” Sansa mocked mildly and gained a mocking smirk from her sister in return.

“Ah yes, stupid of me. You’re completely right, sweet sister. Though I’d wager those men you want to ‘bewitch’ so badly wouldn’t like it when a woman towers over them like a skyscraper. Makes a man feel kind of diminutive, you know? Besides, you think I’d be able to carry out all those missions Father gives me if I go around prancing in a stupid gown? No? Thought so. Zip that pretty mouth of yours sis, if you don’t know jacksh–”

“Arya, enough.” Robb chided, though the smile across his face and the twinkle of amusement in his eyes did little to bring home his reprimanding. He started patting Sansa’s hand placatingly before she could scream bloody hell at her insolent sister. “You too Sansa, Father and Mother wouldn’t approve if the two of you started spilling Stark blood in the Red Keep. Look around you.” He gesticulated at their surroundings as they walked through the great vestibule, pointing out all the lascivious looks sharply-dressed men casted at them, their presence tucked away behind pillars and shadowed corners like crooks with an ulterior motive. “If it wasn’t for the occasion, and Mother and Father weren’t around, I would have scooped their damn eyes out of their sockets for leering at the two of you like that. So you see, I’m also holding my less than savoury tendencies at bay. I’d very much appreciate some common courtesy from you.”

Sansa couldn’t help the titter escape her lips and even Arya’s guffaw didn’t bother her as much as it always did, the tension lifting with a mere jape of sweet Robb.

“As if I’d let you hog all the fun. I might do it myself if I catch one of these dogs looking at me, or Sans for that matter, for a second too long.”

“Very endearing to hear that sweet sister, but unnecessary. I can take care of myself.”

Arya raised an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced, and her lips already parted to try and come up with a witty remark, but Robb gave Arya a pointed look that silenced her on the spot. Their parents were not too far away, standing still and seemingly in conversation with someone and walking in on them like wetnurses bickering over a babe would not be appreciated by Mother. As she, Robb and Arya closed the gap between them and the rest of their family, Sansa crossed eyes with the most comely woman inside the Red Keep, and possibly of their entire society. It left her breathless the first time she saw her, but this time she was better composed, even if her heart thudded violently inside her ribcage.  

Long silver-gold hair tumbled down her left shoulder, the locks braided in a single plait, their texture looking soft and smooth as spun snow. She was small of frame, shorter than herself, about the same height perhaps as Arya, but it did nothing to diminish her regal radiance. It only served to be another reason for her to have her chin raised up and proud, a true creature of regality. The Princess Daenerys was dressed to compliment her lustrous hair, in a gown of similarly coloured fabric, white and golden in their silky material and hugging her well-endowed curves. It was a surprisingly modest dress though, not showing much skin except for the hollow of her neck and some shoulder. It was sleeved and close-backed, but out of every pore of her body Daenerys still bled royalty and screamed beauty. Nothing about her was demure, reserved or timid. The Lady Regnant was power personified. Authority embodied. Yet, all of that paled in comparison to the Princess’ most defining trait. The one thing Sansa above all else found herself infatuated with.

The colour of her eyes.

In the span of twenty years, Sansa had appreciated many eye colours. She herself loved her own bright river blue eyes, the same eyes she and her brothers had inherited from their loving Mother. Arya inherited Father’s smoky eyes, which didn’t per se glimmer like Sansa always preferred, they instead holding a certain strength she always good-naturedly envied of them. Sansa had a soft spot for green, grey and blue eyes, and always got all weak-legged about them. After ten years, and Sansa could still make out the details of Harrold’s eyes.

The first time she met the Princess, her definition of beautiful eyes were crushed to fine powder. Hers were a pair of such finely cut purple gems, bright, polished and shining in the light, amethysts of the purest forms. Princess Daenerys was the only person in their society who carried with her jewels for eyes. They were like her crown and sceptre; people almost bowed at the mere sight of her eyes shining down on them. They were so beautiful, Sansa couldn’t help but beg Mother years ago if she could be gifted with the same eyes on one of her birthdays. Arya still japes about it from time to time, a constant source of annoyance for Sansa whenever an argument gets too heated between them, reminding her of her childish wishes.

“Your Highness, a genuine pleasure to once again see you.” Sansa’s curtsy was deep, deferent and graceful as a swan. The Princess hummed, her rosy cheeks pulled into a lovely smile, eyes jauntily glancing at them.

“Oh my oh my, look at the two of you. My Lord Stark, your daughters have grown quite gorgeous I must say. We vampyres are known for our unrivalled beauty, I know that, but these two shine like fine diamonds.” Daenerys flattered, eying them with an appraising glance as Father and Mother thanked her for her kind words. Sansa meaningfully threw a glance at Arya, who returned the stare with one of her own, the same indifference from before.

“ _Curtsy before her, you miscreant_ …” She mouthed, and  even Mother frowned at Arya’s lack of decorum, while Father and her brothers shared bemused looks. With a heavy roll of her eyes, her sister was about to dip in an offhanded curtsy, but the Lady Regnant waved off her hand.

“It’s quite alright, my dears.” Her smile was pleasant and not at all affronted. “Though I appreciate your humility, there is no need for curtsies and bows. It’s the twentieth century and society is experiencing a great change.”

“You are indeed right, Your Highness, society is going through radical changes. I can’t say I approve some of it, but it seems to be completely out of our control.” Mother smiled, the very epitome of courteous. Daenerys nodded, shifting her attention to her brother Robb.

“Robb, my dashing prince, be so kind and escort your family through the halls. I’m afraid your Father and I have some small business to discuss. Please, the castle is yours for the occasion, do not hesitate to bring your wishes to one of the servants.”

Robb answered with a bow of his head, kissed the Lady Regnant’s hand gallantly before he shepherded Rickon and Bran further into the hall, Mother and Arya tailing his footsteps when they too parted with the Lady Regnant. Sansa lingered for a second, long enough to give a small but graceful curtsy again, which seemed to please her Highness, before she lifted her gown slightly and followed after her Mother and siblings. She couldn’t help it, but Sansa casted one last glance behind her and took stock of Father’s solemn face and the Lady Regnant’s creased eyebrows as she spoke with Father, her smile gone like snow on a summer day. It was a little bemusing to see. As more words kept getting exchanged, her Father gradually started look more and more alarmed, until he surreptitiously tried to hide his shock at the Princess’ last words before she parted ways with Father. Not many things could break Eddard Stark’s stony expression, and whatever it was, it had to be something of great import.

“Sansa! Dear me, look at yourself! Are you searching for potential suitors with that dress?” A saccharine voice she didn’t hear in years called out to her, Sansa smiling as the buxom form of Myranda Royce sauntering like a peacock towards her, her concerns around Father forgotten.

“Randa! It’s so lovely to see you again!” They kissed cheeks and Sansa took her friend by the arm, leading them towards the great hall in a slow pace. “Tonight will be a most splendid night, I am sure of it. You _have_ to tell me all about your misadventures across Europe when we’ve found Mya and the other ladies.”

She could softly hear the sweet sounds of violins and the grand organ filling the castle with its mellifluous music, already imagining the hundreds of floor occupants dancing the stars away tonight.

“So, what have you been up to, sweet Sansa? It’s been far too long since we’ve spoken. In three years, you’ve filled up quite nicely, I must say.” She teased with that typical shrewd little smile of hers.

“Thank you love, you still look as womanly as the first time we met.” At that Myranda puffed out her generous chest proudly, an object many eyes always lingered a tad bit longer than what was proper, something Myranda was very much aware of and always delighted in. “I haven’t been up to much, honestly. Finished learning Chinese a month ago, Arabic before that and now I’m trying to learn Italian.”

“Languages? Huh, I never pegged you for a linguist… What’s the point anyway? So you can waggle your tongue in a different way? It’s not exactly an advantage for a woman if you ask me. For a man though…” Myranda’s meticulously depilated eyebrows wiggled and Sansa couldn’t help but smile endearingly.

“That’s precisely the point, Randa. Speak one language, and you speak to one world. Speak eight languages, and you can speak to eight different worlds. Spain, France, Great Britain, China, Russia, India, the African countries, they all have their own worlds. You know I wish to one day work for my Father’s company. And the more languages you can speak, the easier it is to be taken seriously.” Sansa’s face turned playful now. “And also, speaking multiple languages is such an advantage if you wish to gossip and not be understood.” 

Sansa and Myranda shared stories as the kept on sauntering towards the great hall, tittering between themselves about the latest sordid talk. The sweet music got louder as they approached, and before long, Myranda and she stood in front of two servants standing vigil at the oaken doors. They pushed open the ornamented doors wordlessly, and Sansa’s eyes turned starry at the magnificence she saw sprawled before her feet.

The great hall was brightly illuminated, bathing the entire room in golden light, each object around reflecting it and enhancing the beauty to near ethereal amounts. Up above was a grand chandelier glistening like a captured star, sending down brilliant beams of white light around. The gala was packed with people, the endless marble floor not lacking for occupants at all. Acrobats and fire-spewers were all around performing acts to their entertainment, some even playing an instrument while balancing on ropes or balls, all dressed as colourful harlequins. To Sansa’s astonishment, she witnessed how one of the entertainers walked about as a human spider, her agility so borderless that it was frightening almost to watch. The ball had a very Venetian feeling to it with its sixteenth century music and the amusement dressed as such. It was impossible for Sansa not to fall in love and swoon at the beauty of it all.

“Come along now, little dove. We must make haste, there is mingling to do. And I’m sure quite a few gentlemen around are _very_ eager to spoke to you.”

Oh, she was quite eager herself to speak with a great many lords around.

 

* * *

**DAENERYS**

Her finger brushed once over the cold metal surface of a silver penchant dangling from the necklace resting in the palm of her hand, its chain hanging out and softly rocking around. It was crafted in the form of a dragon, the sigil of her house, _their_ house, and Daenerys’s purple eyes were soft and swimming through the lanes of her memories, her lips curving into a small smile. She kept the motion up, her mind knowing the way her wrist would bend and turn every time a particular memory flashed before her eyes. Her skin wasn’t foreign to the movements. Daenerys always caressed the necklace if the rooms held no other voices as their occupants. The dragon pendant was Daenerys’ most precious possession. Jon had gifted her this piece of jewellery for her coming of age, and she cherished both it and the day with all her heart.

“Are you certain, Your Highness? Is this the proper way to proceed?” Missandei asked as they graced the dark corridors of the Red Keep, passing by rows and rows of steel armour and paintings of historic significance. Daenerys’s gait was measured, calm, and determined, her hands folded demurely in front of her and her steps confident in their walk. She led a throng of men behind her towards the council chambers, the most notable members of the Vampyre Society on her trail to discuss the most delicate of matters. Black-cloaked guards flanked them at both sides, and when Daenerys and her entourage came upon a great door, she dismissed the men with a mere wave, who all took their stations across the hall and guard the council until further notice. Power was at the tip of her fingers. With a mere flicker of her wrist, men and women would bend to her will. Yet, Daenerys couldn’t have felt more helpless and lost then she did now, with a certain decision resting so heavily on her shoulder.

“I have no other option anymore, Missandei. The Society hinges on this very matter. It’s the only card I’ve left to play. You know that, my dearest friend. I wouldn’t broach the topic if I didn’t feel desperate.” Daenerys took the mellow hand of Missandei in her own and squeezed in reassurance. She cared not for decorum at the moment, it could be damned if she had a say to it. Right now, a great deal of weight pressed on to her shoulders, and Daenerys could use a little comfort. Missandei never disappointed in her capacity to calm her mistress, and her eyes sparkled in understanding, her lips parted in a soft smile.

The Council Chamber was a grim room, bleak and insipidly grey, a sharp contrast to the lively great hall where the feast was being held. Only a hollowed round table made of dolomite and nine seats carved out of the same material were placed inside it, one for each Great Family and the one at the head for the Ruling Dynasty. Each seat had a sigil carved into them, and every Elder representing a part of the Society took their respective place at the table. Daenerys surveyed the room and allowed herself to furtively scrutinize each and every member as they made to sit.

She started with Lord Eddard Stark, and found herself ease immediately. The head of House Stark was not one for the game of politics. He was honourable to a fault. Daenerys noticed that the Scandinavians weren’t much of an ambitious lot, content in their position as only one of the Great Families, a rank that still enjoyed much privilege.

It may have also been some influencing on Jon Arryn’s part. The Arryns and Starks were always so close after all. It rendered considering the French Elder guilty of conspiring with the Blackfyres moot. Honour was in their blood, a rare treat for vampyres.    

Her eyes glided over to Lord Doran Martell, her white eyebrows furrowing in thought as she observed him sitting like an effigy of ice. The Martells were tricky creatures, vipers if they wanted to be, but not wholly indiscernible and not without scruples. Daenerys knew the Martell Patriarch was a quick-witted man, having lived for almost three hundred years, making him one of the oldest vampyres. He was quite loved judging by Arianne’s, Quentyn’s and Trystane’s upbringing, all three lovely but ambitious children eager to prove their mettle. Like the Lord Stark and Lord Arryn, the Spanish Elder was probably only a threat if one made him as such. The Martells had a bone in their body that told Daenerys of their desire for greater glory, but not at a cost too high to pay. Which brought her to the third, and most unpredictable of the Vampyre Elders, Lord Tywin Lannister.

How did that saying go again? Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the world? Or something along those lines. Daenerys had figured out the Lannisters the first time she had laid her eyes on them. It brought unpleasant, haunting memories back when she saw that raw hunger for power dance in Cersei Lannister’s eyes. Memories of Ottoman imperialism, thousands of deaths and a rebellion that had costed her everything would come back to poke its ugly head and cause her headaches for weeks. It’s no secret that the Lannister always held ambitions that could cast a shadow over the world. As a former royal family, they certainly acted the part as blue-blooded aristocrats, viewing everyone either as an obstacle to absolute power or a footstool to rest their feet on. Cersei Lannister still made her blood boil, with that insufferable glint of superiority permanently shining inside her invidious eyes, or every time she’d wrinkle her nose at, well, everything catching her fancy and deemed unworthy. Imperialism may have been an inherit quirk of humanity, but it were the British who erected the world’s largest empire. Daenerys did well to be wary of the British Elder and his ambitions.

Robert Baratheon was a negligible man. To even consider him capable of schemes and plots was useless. He was many times too deep in his cups, a philanderer and a lecher to boot and perhaps a bit of a simpleton. Not an ounce on his wide girth indicated him as a man with a hidden agenda. Still, he was the American Vampyre Elder, and a title such as that one did hold weight. It also didn’t help he was married to that tart-spitting witch Cersei. It was a constant consideration on Daenerys’ part whether to conclude that Robert Baratheon had succumbed to the poisonous whispers of his wife yet or not.

Now came another man, and this one, Daenerys treaded around warily, more so than Tywin Lannister. The Chinese Vampyre Elder Long Hai was even a greater enigma than Tywin Lannister. People from the Ming Empire were always a source of intrigue for her. They were a diligent, meritocratic and honourable kind of creatures. Long Hai had assisted the society through numerous times, financially and politically reforming it to ruthless efficiency. The Vampyre Council was his idea, as well as the partition of the Vampyre Society in eight constituent regions. All for the benefit for their Society, and to garner influence of course for himself. No matter, after tonight, I’d be for naught.

The Council was mostly dominated by men, but that didn’t put up much of a strong argument to say that women had no power on matters of import. Quite the contrary, for Daenerys served as acting head of the Vampyre Society, so the decision ultimately did fall on her lap. The other woman on the Council was someone Daenerys came to realize as equally cunning and determined as Tywin Lannister and Long Hai. Olenna Tyrell. Though the Tyrells of Austria were more… romantic in their pursues. Where others waged war, the Tyrells married to enlarge their influence. Daenerys found it a more favourable form of conquest. Olenna Tyrell has tried for centuries now to couple one of her sons to Daenerys. None of them could have hold a candle to the man she truly loved, and so, Daenerys turned down Olenna’s offers, or any offers for that matter, with polite disinterest.

Daenerys now finally allowed her eyes to fall on the last member of the Council, the Arabian Elder Hizdahr zo Loraq. The Arabs, well, they were a particular bunch. Hailing first as mere nomads and shepherds, their rise to prominence went hand in hand with the rise of oil as the world’s leading product. The ‘black gold’ of Saudi-Arabia caused an influx of wealthy families residing in the Arabian peninsula and Daenerys was fraught to choose a family to represent her interests in the Middle East. Every other member was picked on careful deliberation, but the Middle East was a wild guess. After the Ottoman collapse, hegemony was hard to establish in the anarchic lands of the Middle East, but somewhere along the trek back to normalcy, Saud-Arabia emerged as the leading power.   

Determining the Council had been a constant ache to her head from the very beginning. Daenerys was still aware of Russia’s ire of dis-inclusion to the Vampyre Council. She had to hear them moan and hiss incredulities at every occasion they had the opportunity. Luckily Russian nobility had been all but wiped off the face of the earth after Tsar Nicolas was dethroned and deposed. Still, lingering resentment had Daenerys considering adding a final chair to the Council.

Daenerys gave a little shake of her head, willing the thoughts away. Currently, she had other, more pressing affairs to address than the worries of politicking.

“Your Highness, allow me to express on behalf of the Council our gratitude for arranging this most exquisite feast. It alleviates much needed pressure from our shoulders and to add, it brings my family great joy to say tha–“

“Oh spare us your grovelling, Hizdahr.” Olenna interrupted with a sardonic smirk, twirling her blood-filled glass with her gnarly fingers. “You and your family are not here to appreciate the fineries Her Highness has provided for us. It’s plain as day why you have come here, each of your gilded cars laden with gifts worth fortunes. It’s almost as though you’d wish to entice the Princess with a dowry, and offer yourself as a bride.” She finished with a delighted scoff, relishing in the way the Arabian Elder turned red with embarrassment and anger.

The matriarch of the Tyrell family more than deserved her nickname as the ‘Queen of Thorns’; her tongue was sharper than any sword in the world. She could cut swords with that tongue even. It brought a brief smile of amusement to Daenerys seeing Hizdahr quietly glowering from his seat at the Austrian lady. If looks could kill, the Lady Olenna would have been murdered thrice over.

“I have not convened the Council to discuss my celibacy, again.”

“Oh come now dear, you realize the greatest joy of a woman is to one day blossom into a wonderful wife and Mother. Surely, you cannot keep denying yourself of such. My eldest grandson Willas is still unwed, looking for the right spouse to one day rule th-”

“Lady Tyrell, once again, this meeting does _not_ concern me or my status as a woman. It concerns something far more important than the frivolities of marriage and happiness, that will change the very foundation of our covens.”

“Oh? And what might that be, Your Highness? We were under the impression that tonight, we would either finally address the glaring existence of the Blackfyres and their group of insurgents or your marital status. Either topics are of tantamount importance. I cannot think of something greater.” Tywin spoke, bracing his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers and veiled his face behind them. His beady eyes, full of the colour jade, glinted with that same Lannister intrigue, his voice carrying a deep tone that bounced off the walls of the Council Chambers. Like Olenna, he’s been trying to have her bound to the Lannisters through marriage for nearly one and a half century, first to his son Jaime and then to his grandson Joffrey. For the love of God, Joffrey Baratheon was a mere child! The brat still hasn’t unlearned his godawful tantrums or his tendency to scurry behind his Mother’s skirt if things got too hot beneath his feet. Hell, Daenerys wouldn’t be surprised if that golden-haired brat still suckled on his Mother’s breasts from time to time.  

“More than five hundred years, the first of our species, my beloved nephew Jon Targaryen returned from a war that left him broken and haunted by atrocities of his own hand as well as those committed by his enemies. You have all seen his ornamented sarcophagus when you were consecrated as Elders during the Blood Ritual.”

“Ah yes, the legend of the Targaryen prince, can’t say I haven’t heard this one a hundred times. Myrcella and Tommen would bleed my ears with their whining, so I had the household maids tell that insufferable story.” The American Elder sneered. A hint of derision laced itself through Robert’s tone. “ _Swear our eternal fealty to His Majesty, our King who guards us from the shadow realms._ We all know the tragedy of our most noble ancestor; the solitary prince that stood against the full might of the greatest empire of its time, who threw himself into a curse that left his blood colder than ice, daggers for fangs and eyes blacker than the night. Hah! It’s a ridiculous story, nothing more!”

“Hold your tongue, Lord Baratheon, or I will have it cut out!” Her hiss was dripping with such venom it could poison the oceans. Daenerys’ fangs bared and her violet eyes were set ablaze towards the American Elder who merely chuckled further. How dare this fool besmirch Jon’s name!? He would have cut him down right where he stood if he were here!

Jon Arryn seemed to act as a mediator as his hands and eyes tried to mollify the Lady Regnant with soothing gestures.

“Forgive him, Your Highness, do not presume Robert Baratheon is of sound mind right now. It was folly of him to speak the way he did.” He shoot a disapproving glance at Robert, who grumbled under his breath and took another long gulp of his blood-wine. “However, the stories of the Absent King have always been one full of speculation to us. In our eyes, he is merely a myth. A vignette of a fantasy presupposed to give our existence meaning for the people to clinch to. We know not who King Jon was, we have never laid eyes upon his corpse inside this sarcophagus, if there is any corpse at all. No documents have been preserved either that tell us of his actual existence. We believe what our eyes tell us. Faith no longer plays a part in our minds, not since we’ve discovered immortality.”

“Which begs the question.” Lord Hai continued. “What has brought about this sudden interest on Her Highness’ part to bring up the topic of the King?”

Daenerys braced herself, for she was about to share the revelation of the century. She cleared her throat as all the Elders locked their glances on her.

“Because, the time has come, after centuries of hibernation, to awaken His Majesty from his slumbers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just keeping my fingers warm for writing. This was honestly quite fun to write, and hopefully, you will find it an enjoyable read as well.


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